Robert Bly

A Home in Dark Grass

In the deep fall, the body awakes, 
And we find lions on the seashore— 
Nothing to fear. 
The wind rises, the water is born, 
Spreading white tomb-clothes on a rocky shore,  
Drawing us up 
From the bed of the land.

We did not come to remain whole. 
We came to lose our leaves like the trees,  
Trees that start again,
Drawing up from the great roots. 
So men captured by the Moors, 
Wake rowing in the cold ocean
Air, living a second life.

That we should learn of poverty and rags,  
That we should taste the weed of Dillinger,  
And swim in the sea, 
Not always walking on dry land, 
And, dancing, find in the trees a savior,  
A home in dark grass, 
And nourishment in death.